Section 19

"You and your Yes, Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his bread and butter, and acting like he was adding something very special to it by picking up a very little piece that fell in the plate. "Ah! I think so. I believe you."
"You were going out tonight?" asked his good wife, when he took another bite.
"Yes, I am."
"Can I go with you, father?" his son asked quickly. "No, you may not. I'm a going, as your mother knows, fishing. "There's a lot of rust on your fishing stick, is there not, father?" "Never you mind."
"Will you be bringing fish home, father?"
"If I don't, you'll have little to help you tomorrow," returned the man, shaking his head. "Anyway, that's questions enough for you. I'm not going out until long after you go to bed."
For what was left of the night, he kept a very careful watch over Mrs. Cruncher, keeping her busy with his angry talk, to stop her from thinking any prayers that could be used to hurt his plans. He encouraged his son to keep her busy with talk too, and made her life hard by saying anything bad that he could think of about her, just so she would not have time to think or pray. The most religious person could not show more faith in the power of prayer than he did in the way he feared his wife praying. It was like a person who does not believe in ghosts being afraid of a ghost story.
"And mind you!" said Mr. Cruncher. "No games tomorrow! If I, as an honest worker, am able to bring home a piece or two of meat, I'll have none of your not touching it and eating only bread. If I, as an honest worker, am able to buy a little beer, I'll have none of you saying that you only want water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be an ugly friend to you if you don't. I'm your Rome, you know."
Then he returned to talking about his problems.
"With you flying in the face of your own food and drink! I don't know how hard you will make it for us to get food and drink here, by your dropping tricks and your cruel actions. Look at your boy: he is yours, isn't he? He's as thin as a stick. Do you call yourself a mother and not know that a mother's first job is to fill her boy out?"
This touched young Jerry's heart, who pushed his mother to do her first job, and whatever else she did or did not do, above all things to give special interest to that first job of a mother, so kindly and wisely pointed to by his other parent.
This is how the evening went with the Cruncher family, until young Jerry was told to go to bed, and his mother was given the same rule. They both obeyed. Mr. Cruncher got through the first part of the night smoking pipes, and did not start his trip until one in the morning. About that time, he got up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cabinet, and brought out a bag, a strong iron bar of a good size to carry, a rope and chain, and other things like that to be used to do his 'fishing'. Pulling these things around himself in a way that was easy to carry, he said one more angry word to Mrs. Cruncher, put out the light, and left.
Young Jerry, who had not taken his clothes off when he went to bed, left a short time after his father. Under cover of darkness, he moved out of the room, down the steps, and out into the streets. He had no worries about getting back into the house later, because many people lived in it, and the door was always open.
Pushed on by a deep interest in knowing the secrets of his father's honest work, young Jerry stayed as close to walls and door openings as his eyes were to each other. He stayed close enough to see his loved parent without being seen himself. His loved parent had not gone far before he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and the two walked on together.*
(*Izaak Walton wrote a book on fishing at that time)
In less than half an hour they were on an open road, past the winking eyes of lanterns and the more than winking eyes of the watchmen. Out here, another "fisherman" joined the first two so quietly that young Jerry could have believed that the second man had changed to two by magic.
The three went on, and young Jerry went on, until the three stopped where the ground on one side of the road was much higher than the road itself. There was a low brick wall on the high ground, with a low iron fence on top of that. The three turned up a narrow road leading to the side, where the low wall grew to be eight or ten feet high.
Hiding at the corner, young Jerry saw, by the light of the moon, the shape of his loved parent climbing over an iron gate. He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They all dropped softly on the ground inside the gate, and lay there for a while, maybe listening. Then they moved away on their hands and knees.
It was now young Jerry's turn to move up to the gate, which he did. He looked in through the bars to see the three fishermen moving on all fours through some long grass! The white stones marking where people were buried there — for this was a big church burying ground — looked like ghosts watching the men. And the church tower looked over it all like a giant ghost. The men had not moved far before they stopped and stood up. And then they started to fish.
They fished with a spade at first. A short while later, the loved parent pulled out another tool. Whatever tools they used, they worked hard with them, until the ringing of the church bell filled young Jerry with such fear that he turned and ran, with his hair sticking up as much as his father's.
The great interest he had held for so long about what his father did when he went out at night soon stopped him in his run, and led him back to the gate. When he looked in, he could see that they were still fishing, but that they now had a bite. There were sounds of movement down below, and they were bent over as if pulling at something very heavy down in the hole. Little by little the weight broke away from the dirt that was still holding it down, and came to where young Jerry could see it. He knew what it would be, but when he saw his loved parent about to force it open, he became so filled with fear about what he would see that he ran off again and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
Even then he would not have stopped for anything less important than breathing, it being a race with a ghost that he was running, and a race he wanted badly to finish in one piece. He could picture in his mind the box with the body in it standing up on its narrow end and jumping along after him as he ran. Always he could see it moving close behind him, and at times going by beside him, maybe reaching out to take hold of his arm. It was not a runner to let get near him. It was a devil that could be in many places at the same time too, so that at the same time that he believed it was running behind him, he also stayed out of the dark side roads for fear it would be hiding in them and would drop quickly on him like a wild kite without a tail. It was hiding in the openings for doors at the side of the road too. And in any shadows on the road, where it would lie on its back trying to make him fall over it. All this time it was still running after him, and getting closer and closer, so that when the boy reached his own door he had reason for being half dead. Even then it would not leave him, but followed him up to his room, jumping from step to step. It moved into the bed beside him, and was lying heavily on his chest when he fell asleep.
Sometime between the first sign of light and the sun coming up, young Jerry was pulled from his troubled sleep by the sound of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong, or so that is what young Jerry was thinking from seeing his father holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears and hitting her head against the board at the head of their bed.
"I told you I would," said Mr. Cruncher, "and I did."
"Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" his wife begged.
"You put yourself against me making anything from my business," said Jerry, "and when you do that, me and the men I work with lose out. You was to love and obey; why the Devil don't you?"
"I try to be a good wife, Jerry," the poor woman argued with tears.
"Is it being a good wife to fight against his business? Is it loving your husband to hate his business? Is it obeying your husband to not obey him on things to do with his business?"
"You hadn't taken to that awful business back then, Jerry."
"It's enough for you," answered back Mr. Cruncher, "to be the wife of an honest worker, and not fill your female mind with thoughts about when he started his business or when he didn't. A loving and obeying wife would let his business alone. Call yourself a religious woman do you? If you're a religious woman, then give me one who isn't religious. You have no more feeling for what a wife should do than the bottom of this Thames River has for a building. In both cases, such a thing has to be knocked into place."
The argument was all done in a quiet voice, and ended with the honest worker kicking off his clay covered boots, and lying down on the floor. After taking a secret look at him lying on his back with his rust covered hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay himself back down too, and fell asleep again.
There was no fish for breakfast and not much of anything else either. Mr. Cruncher was angry, and kept the cover of an iron pot beside him to throw if he needed to stop Mrs. Cruncher from praying over the food. He was clean and dressed in time to head off with his son for what most people believed was his "honest work".
Young Jerry, walking with the seat under his arm at his father's side along sunny crowded Fleet Street, was a very different Young Jerry from the boy who ran home through the darkness the night before, in fear of the awful ghost that was running after him. His mind was sharp with the new day, and his fears from the night before were gone, two things that made him much like others walking down Fleet Street in London on that beautiful morning.
"Father," said young Jerry as they walked along, being careful to keep distance between himself and his father, with the chair between them, "What is a Dig it Up Man?"
Mr. Cruncher came to a stop before he answered. "How should I know?"
"I thought you knowed everything, father," said his rough son.
"Hmm, well!" returned Mr. Cruncher, moving on again, and lifting his hat to let his rough hair fall out. "He's a worker."
"What's he make, father?" asked the sharp young Jerry.
"What he makes," said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, "is things to be used by scientists."
"Persons' bodies, isn't it, father?" asked the bright boy. "I believe it is something like that," said Mr. Cruncher. "Oh father, I would so like to be a Dig it Up Man when I'm quite growed up!"
Mr. Cruncher relaxed. But he shook his head like someone preaching about right and wrong. "It will rest on what you do with your abilities. Learn to never say no more than what you can help to nobody. Do this and there is no telling now what you may come to be then." As young Jerry raced ahead to put the chair in place for his father, Mr. Cruncher added to himself, "Jerry, you honest worker, there's hope that the boy may one day be a blessing to you, and make up for the troubles his mother has brought."
15. Knitting
The drinking had started earlier than most days at Mr. Defarge's wine shop. As early as six in the morning sickly yellow faces had looked in through the windows and been able to see other faces inside bending over glasses of wine. Mr. Defarge sold a watered down wine at the best of times, but there was even more water in the glasses at this time. From the look on the faces of the people drinking there, it was a sour wine too, because they were not smiling. An air of laughing and singing was not jumping out of Mr. Defarge's grape juice on this morning; instead, only a slow burning fire could be seen hiding behind the drinks.
This had been the third morning in as many days that the drinkers had come there so early. It had started on Monday, and this was now Wednesday. There was more thinking than drinking happening, and many men had come to listen and whisper who could not have paid one coin for the drinks, not even to save their soul. But they had as much interest in what was happening as they would have had if they could buy whole barrels of wine. They moved from seat to seat and corner to corner, swallowing talk instead of drinks, with greedy looks on their faces.
For all the people there, the owner of the shop was nowhere to be seen. But the people there were not looking for him. No one asked about him, and no one was surprised to see only Madam Defarge in her seat, watching over the wine sales with a bowl of small coins in front of her, which were as rough and knocked about as the people from whose poor pockets they had come.
It may be that spies had visited the wine shop at that time. If they had, they would have seen that other interests had stopped. Such people were always looking for secrets, from the prisons to the home of the king himself. Card games had stopped. The people playing dominoes were now building little houses with them as they talked of other things. Drinkers would draw shapes on the table in the little wine that fell from their glasses. Madam Defarge herself picked at the pattern on her sleeve with a little stick, and saw and heard something far off in the distance that others could not see or hear.
It was like this, in Saint Antoine's wine shop, for the whole morning. It was noon when two men, covered with dust, walked through Saint Antoine's streets, under the saint's hanging lanterns. One was Mr. Defarge, and the other a road worker in a blue hat. Thirsty and dirty, the two men came into the wine shop. Their coming had started a fire inside Saint Antoine, a fire that moved from face to face at most doors and windows. Yet no one followed them, and no one said a word when they came into the shop. But they did all turn to look and listen.
"Good day, friends!" said Mr. Defarge.
Maybe it was a sign for them to talk, because he received many Good days in return.
"The weather's not good at all," said Defarge, shaking his head.
On hearing this, they all looked at one another and then down at the floor, without saying anything. All but one man, who stood up and walked out.
"My wife," said Defarge to Mrs. Defarge, but loudly enough for the others to hear: "I have travelled a few miles with this good road worker, called Jack. I met him, by accident, a day and a half s travel outside of Paris. He is a good boy, this road worker, called Jack. Give him a drink, wife!"
A second man stood up and left. Madam Defarge put wine before the road worker called Jack, who took off his blue hat to the crowd, and had a drink. Inside his shirt, he carried rough dark bread. He ate it between drinks, and sat there chewing and drinking near Madam Defarge's counter. A third man stood and went out.
Mr. Defarge poured himself some wine too, but not as much as he had given to the stranger, for whom the drink was very special. He stood waiting for the man from the village to finish his breakfast.
He looked at no one and no one looked at him, not even Madam Defarge, who was now hard at work knitting.
"Have you finished your meal?" he asked after some time. "Yes, thank you."
"Come, then! You can see the room that I said you would stay in. You will be very happy with it."
Out of the wine shop, into the street; out of the street into the yard; out of the yard and up some steep steps. Out of the steps and into a little room under the roof — a room where a white-haired man had sat in the past, on a low bench, leaning forward and busily making shoes.